The Letter
by R. Franke
Summary: CGB Spender writes a letter to Scully


TITLE: The Letter

AUTHOR: R. Franke

E-MAIL: [**rbfranke@juno.com**][1]

RATING: PG

CLASSIFICATION: V, MSR

SPOILERS: Requiem, En Ami, Tithonus, The Red and the Black, the Emily arc.

SUMMARY: CGB Spender writes a letter to Scully.

DISCLAIMER: Scully, Mulder, et al. are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, the Fox Network, the actors, writers and all other persons known or unknown with a legal claim on the characters. This is a story of fan fiction, written for the purpose of personal satisfaction and the enjoyment of others, and monetary or other compensation is neither expected nor desired.

ARCHIVE: Permission is given to archive this story, provided it is archived without alteration, including this disclaimer and copyright notice, and the author is contacted at [**rbfranke@juno.com**][1]

COPYRIGHT: 2000 by R. Franke

****

THE LETTER

"Detective Townsend? I'm Special Agent Dana Scully. You requested me?" She noted the quickly hidden look of surprise on the older man's face.

"And Agent Mulder?" the detective asked, looking past her.

"Is not available," Scully replied, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice at the man's obvious unease.

Townsend sighed. "I'm sorry. I just didn't expect to hear from you until the morning."

Scully looked at Townsend, noting the detective's threadbare shirt straining across his stomach, and the shiny patches on the elbows of his cheap suit. Hanging on with both hands until mandatory retirement forced him out, she concluded absently, even if that meant working the despised midnight shift. No wedding ring, or even the shadow of one on his finger. Heart attack, probably fatal, within a year or two of retirement, she diagnosed. "Paperwork."

Townsend snorted and pulled out his notebook. "The 911 operator received a call at 12:09 this morning, reporting a dead body, and giving this address. The caller stated that," the detective continued, flipping the page, "the deceased 'requested Agent Scully perform his autopsy'." Townsend closed the notebook, eyebrows raised in inquiry.

"I'm a pathologist," she answered. "I take it the body is inside?"

"Yes. The photographer's finished, but CSU's still working." Scully started to walk past the detective. "One more thing, Agent Scully," Townsend pulled two evidence bags from his coat pocket. "These were found next to the body." The detective held two envelopes in his hand, one addressed in elegant cursive to FBI Special Agent F. Mulder, the other to FBI Special Agent Dr. D. Scully, M.D. Her eyes widened as she looked at the handwriting, then she turned on her heel and strode into the house.

Scully knelt down and examined the corpse, then pulled out her cell phone. "Sir, it's Agent Scully. Nothing's wrong, sir. I apologize for waking you. Spender, the Smoking Man, is dead. Yes, sir, I'm sure. Rigor has passed and his body is exhibiting a state of fixed lividity. I would estimate the time of death as approximately two to three days ago. D.C. police received the call just after midnight. The immediate evidence strongly suggests that his death was not from natural causes." She closed her eyes briefly. "Yes sir. Thank you, sir." She closed her cell phone and turned to Townsend. "This is now a federal matter, detective. Please have all evidence sent to the FBI Labs at Quantico, as well as the 911 tape and copies of any notes you may have taken."

Townsend nodded. "Of course." He cleared his throat. "May I ask?"

Scully tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and blew out her breath with a huff. "C.G.B. Spender was known to be involved in arson, extortion, kidnapping, murder, treason, and crimes against humanity, among others." She smiled tightly. "Although if you asked me to prove it, I couldn't."

"Sounds like somebody did the world a favor," Townsend commented.

"You would think so," Scully replied, reaching towards the banister post and pulling loose a long blonde hair. "Although I suspect his replacements will be worse."

Scully pulled on her latex gloves and slid the envelope from the evidence bag lying on the desk. Taking a deep breath, she slid the letter opener under the flap and slit the top in one convulsive move. A small envelope and two sheets of typewritten paper were inside. She pulled them out and began to read.

Dear Agent Scully,

If you are reading this letter, then I am dead, even if my body is never found.

That certainly sounds dramatic, doesn't it? I always have had a tendency for purple prose. Perhaps that's why the only magazines that will publish my work tend to feature half-naked women being threatened by shadowy figures on their covers.

But enough of that. Robert Oppenheimer said it best when he said "I am not an evil man, but I have done evil things." I've often thought that line would be as good an epitaph as any.

Does that surprise you, Dana? I don't deny that I have done evil things, but my cause was the salvation of humanity. I think that would have earned me a lot of forgiveness if I had succeeded.

If. That's a large word for only two letters. We thought we could fool the aliens, play the factions off against one another for long enough to learn their technology. Unfortunately, we had our own internecine squabbles to deal with as well.

Your assignment to the X-Files was the result of one of those squabbles. You were a temporary, compromise candidate until the person we really wanted as Mulder's partner would be available. But she went out for some drinks a few nights later and wrapped her car around a telephone pole.

After that, we investigated you, and decided you would be the perfect pawn. Your past history of "spreading my legs for the boss-du-jour" seemed tailor-made for our purposes.

Oh, by the way, those are your words Agent Scully, not mine. You were quite talkative during your abduction. I must admit, I was surprised, both by your scathing self-assessment and by your determination to change. You hadn't slept with Agent Mulder, and were determined not to, despite your strong attraction to him. I started to admire you then, and pulled what strings I could to get you released.

Unfortunately, your fertility was one of the things that had to be sacrificed. Usually no more than six dozen eggs are taken from any one woman. I've always found that part of the program distasteful, but I knew better than to protest too strongly. The one time I did, Cassandra was selected as a primary experimental subject. I didn't enjoy the power I do now, so there was nothing I could do. Sometimes I can even convince myself that the trade-off was worth it.

There is no use dwelling on the past, however. My wife and my son are both dead now, and they died hating me. It was easier that way.

I didn't lie to you when I said I wanted to leave one decent thing as my legacy. The information to cure everything was on that disc, Dana. I didn't lie to you when I told you that. But I didn't tell you what else I needed. I needed your chip as well. That was really the whole point of our little trip.

Everyone should have died at Ruskin Dam, Dana, but you and about fifty others escaped. We found out later that every one of you had chips from the same manufacturing lot, and every one of those chips would fail to operate properly when subjected to high levels of adrenaline. Most of those people are dead or dying now, from cancer, heart disease, leukemia, and a variety of other illnesses. But five people have not only shown no signs of illness, but have survived two car crashes, a suicide attempt, a fall from a cliff, and a gunshot wound to the stomach, all of which should have been fatal. They not only survived, but healed at a vastly accelerated rate. The reasons why were on that disc.

Four of them are dead now, Dana, victims of our shape-shifting friend, and their chips destroyed, but I managed to keep your identity a secret. 

I won't pretend my motives were completely altruistic. Whoever could control this knowledge would be the most powerful man on the planet. In all honesty, I felt, I still feel, that I would be the best man for the job.

Then Fate decided to play a cruel trick. Your chip, the only one left, had burned out, completely.

Can you imagine what I felt when I learned that, Dana? To have everything I wanted within in my grasp, then to have it dashed away, not by an enemy I could fight, but by a manufacturing error? I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I still don't.

You'll find your chip in the smaller envelope. Take whatever X-rays, MRI's, whatever you need to convince you. Your chip has been removed. And you are still alive.

Scully reached for the smaller envelope and slit it open. She turned it upside down. A metal chip and a white business card slid out into her cupped palm. Putting the card aside, she held up the chip. The fingers of her other hand absently traced the scar on the back of her neck as she examined the chip. With a sigh, she put the chip aside and picked up the business card. "Jotunheim Cryostorage, Inc." She smiled faintly. "The land of the Norse frost giants." She turned the card over. A twelve digit alphanumeric code was written on the back. She picked up the letter again and began to read.

You'll also find a business card for a cryostorage facility in Delaware. On the back is the account number of William and Katherine Sfbadski. According to company records, Mr. and Mrs. Sfbadski deposited her unfertilized eggs before Mrs. Sfbadski began a radical treatment for cancer.

Maybe I can't be the savior of humanity Dana, but I can do one good thing for somebody. To the best of my knowledge and ability, these are the only ones left. My gift to you, Dana. No more Emilys.

And if you will accept some friendly advice from a cold-blooded killer/pop psychologist, let Mulder in. You got through medical school and into the FBI on your own abilities, not because of Jack Willis or Daniel Waterston or anyone else. Do not allow your own self-doubts to convince you otherwise.

There are two kinds of women who are attracted to powerful men. Women who are looking for someone to take care of them, and women who are looking for a complement to their own abilities. I was wrong about you, Dana. It's not their power that you fear, it's your own.

That's why you have been the one to end every one of your relationships, Dana, why you have always been able to walk away.

Colonization will occur, Dana. I don't know when, but it will happen. Before it does, let Mulder into your heart. Let him give you flowers, share an ice cream cone. Go for a long walk on a deserted beach and when you get back make mad, passionate love to each other. Let yourself have one good memory to hold onto as our species is destroyed.

Remember me, Dana, not as some cartoon caricature of evil, smoking my cigarettes and cackling gleefully, but as a man trying to do the best I could under desperate circumstances in an imperfect world.

Sincerely,

Clyde George Barrow Spender 

Scully put down the letter and stared unseeing at the opposite wall. She picked up the telephone and dialed. "Guys, it's me. I need you to check out a facility in Delaware. Jotunheim Cryostorage. Thanks."

She picked up the envelope addressed to Mulder and placed it in the desk drawer, then replaced her own letter in its envelope and put it in her coat pocket. "I expect you to tell me what he said to you, partner," she murmured as she turned off the light and closed his apartment door behind her.

FINIS

   [1]: mailto:rbfranke@juno.com



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